


comment fic

by orphan_account



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Comment Fic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a mix of unrelated comment fic written back in 2009 over on my livejournal, importing here for archival purposes. pairings listed at the beginning of each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. David Cook/Andy Skib

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by the song 'come back to me' by saving jane  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EuXGcgwJ9kk

David Cook/Andy Skib

you watch him every day, changing, shifting into something unfamiliar. you're along for the ride, clinging to the back of the last car on the roller coaster track while everyone below urges faster faster faster. you watch him, burning brighter and brighter in the spotlight, praying that he can hold that spark.  
  
at night, when the only sound the constant hum of rubber sliding over pavement, the almost inaudible twang of country music filtering from the bus driver's lonely sanctuary, when you can curl into his bunk without anyone knowing - those are the moments when you think you can survive this. when there's only you and him, his body turning into the curve of you on instinct, hands and skin and the lullaby of his heart beating steady and slow - you know that this is worth everything.  
  
in the morning the routine will startsover, eyes everywhere, flashbulbs and spotlights and the rumbling beat of day to day existence, hurry hurry hurry up and go nowhere. thousands screaming his name, trying to carve him into something that they want, something that they need. but they can never have the still of night, that's when he comes back to you.

 


	2. David Cook/Andy Skib

 

Michael Johns/Andy Skib

**where we went wrong**

in the end, you figure that maybe it's not so strange that you've found yourself here, with him. you've got a little bit of common history, a commiserating tale of unrequited love/lust/longing for a certain someone, though you're hardly the only two who've wanted. you've got music, the sort of hum riding in your blood that doesn't make sense to those who live without. something essential to your existence that perhaps explains the ones who've gone away, never understanding that they can't own that piece of you for their own.   
  
his mouth is wider than hers, his hands rougher, but this isn't about comparisons - the list would take far too long to compile and would hardly do any justice to explain why you're together. It's not because of the differences, though maybe the similarities instead - a smile, a look, an intention behind a touch. it doesn't matter why, in the end. only that it is, and that the smile, the look, the touch is for you.

 


	3. David Cook/Andy Skib

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by the song 'tonight and forever' by the damnwells

David Cook/Andy Skib

 

in retrospect, drinking alone maybe wasn't such a good idea. in your defense, there isn't much else to do a thousand miles away from where you want to be. it was your choice to be here, the opportunity of a lifetime but it feels worthless without the constant that you're missing. victories are hollow without someone standing on the sideline cheering you on.   
  
he's never been a sideline sort of guy though, and he's already living his dream so you have to suck it up and live yours, as much as it barely feels like living without him.   
  
so you drink and you write, as inadvisable as that is. you let your heart show more than you should, surprising even yourself with the words crawling across the page come morning. you stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering how you've managed to ignore this tug in your heart for so long, wondering if you have enough willpower to stay away.   
  
the phone rings and you answer without thinking, watching the reflection of your mouth forming words, amused by the irony of everything backwards when you feel turned inside out. his voice spills down the line, familiar and rough. you can imagine him exactly in your mind, know exactly when his breath will hitch and inhale, exactly when his breath will rush back out. you know him exactly, everything but his words familiar, the shape of your name turning low and longing, _andy_ traveling a thousand miles down your spine.   
  
'i miss you.'  
  
it's all you can say, tonight and forever.


	4. Kris Allen/Matt Giraud

Kris Allen/Matt Giraud

**and at the end of all your lines**

 

you know he's lying. no one else seems to think anything of it, they all buy his bs line about just being tired without a second thought. of course he's tired, you're all tired. the look in his eyes though, it's not about being tired at all.   
  
you start watching him after that, how he starts a little every time his phone rings, shoulder's tensing until he reads the name on the screen and then falling in disappointment or maybe relief. you're not sure which is worse, not sure which one you could fix. you just want to stop the vacant look in his eyes, want to fill in the warmth that should be there instead.  
  
he's different on stage too, a little more subdued that normal. or maybe you're just watching too closely, lifting your head to match your voice with his, filling in the background for dave and wondering if you could do this if you were just going through the motions. it seems like a waste to do all this work just to get through another day. he could do that from home and save a lot of trouble, though maybe home is the reason he's here all the same.   
  
you decide to confront him anyways, though it's hardly your place, the youngest and the newest and always eager to do the right thing just to fit in with this crazy life. it's not your place, but you settle in anyways, press your hip against his hip and your shoulder against his shoulder, curl your hand around his where it's gripping his phone and distract his fingers from their hold on something too far away to worry about tonight.   
  
he looks at you warily, tension sharp bones against yours as the bus picks up speed on some nameless highway. you shrug and lean in closer, finding a spot where all your hard places fit without the grating bone on bone, finding simple victory when he doesn't push you away. it's not an answer to the question running circles in your head, but it's a step down the right path and you're looking forward to whatever you find at the end of the line.


	5. proprietary

David Cook/Andy Skib

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. 

  
It’s not that you’re jealous (even though you are, but not for the reasons you’d think) because he deserves this, Dave’s _earned_ this more than you think you ever will. You’ve always known that he’d be up there on that big stage, that those hot lights would filter over his shoulders and that voice would fill an arena.

You just thought you’d be there with him when it happened.

You amuse yourself by scrolling through the millions of pictures of him, every encounter and alleged connection laid out in varied html across the web and it makes you smirk a little for all the lengths that people will go to get the full effect of Dave’s gaze on them. Not that you blame them, you’ve been doing everything you could since the moment you met him to pull those eyes in your direction.

It’s bittersweet though, a phantom touch on your shoulder or your waist every time someone catches the real Dave through the façade of eyeliner and bling, a shiver of breath across your neck when his eyes are laid out bare for the world to see. It sparks something inside you, a proprietary urge to push those searching hands away and replace them with your own. And maybe you should have told him before this all happened because now you think he’ll never know just how much you want to touch him, all the time.

He doesn’t know, of course. No one does, not even Jennie; so sweet and everything you should want but not quite the one you do. So you write love songs, pretend they’re for her and substitute the pronouns in your head as if you’re not already twisted up inside.

 


	6. hiding in plain sight

David Archuleta/Neal Tiemann

You look at Neal and you can’t help but think bad things about him, even though it goes against your nature. You’ve tried giving him the benefit of the doubt, after all most of what frightens you about him is just surface stuff and not anything about his personality. It’s just that he’s kind of like the anti-Mormon, rock and roll and tattoos and his _face_ is pierced for goodness’ sake, and doesn’t that _hurt_ you wonder? But at the same time that ink intrigues you, Vonnegut across his knuckles, not exactly LDS approved, though nothing about him is. 

  
You look at Neal and you wonder what all those tattoos really mean and you resist the urge to touch because Neal doesn’t look like the sort that would appreciate it, some tagalong seventeen year old tucked into the corner of a studio because Cook had asked if you wanted to sit in. It’s so different from recording your own songs, something like electricity sparking when Neal slips out of the melody with his guitar and Andy’s voice is just riding along behind Dave’s like it’s meant to be there as counterpart. You’re sort of jealous, because recording with your dad on the other side of the glass just isn’t the same as what these three have, a history in their voices and three sets of hands building music out of thin air.

You lose track of time watching them, like forgetting your own existence with your arms wrapped around your knees and your feet tucked in between the cushion and the arm of some ridiculously comfortable couch. You tilt your head down onto the leather, warming under your cheek and you watch, lost in the music.

 


	7. fidelity

David Cook/Carly Smithson

He can remember the first time he saw Carly Smithson with crystal clarity, an amazing voice wrapping itself around a song and Cook’s sure his head snapped up fast enough to practically give him whiplash. Sleek black hair shining under studio lights and a body shifting on rhythm, just far enough away that her tattoo was little more than blur of color. The whole world lighting up as she ripped her way through the hook, sending his heart slamming against his ribcage. Someone asks him later what his favorite performance was and his mouth moves before his mind can catch up so he stumbles over the explanation, ‘it was just… her’. In it’s simplest form, the truth. 

  
Dave’s well aware of the state of reality, gold bands scattered across the fingers of half the finalists. It should ease the tension, everyone taken except him and Archie, but his mind doesn’t shift in that direction. He’s always had a problem with fixation, his heart deciding on something, someone, before he can follow through with the logistics. It’s easy to confuse, to trick himself into thinking that the full weight of her smile is meant for him; over-analyze every touch and glance and blow them out of proportion. It’s all fantasy, imaginary lines dividing his perception from the way things really are. He can pretend it’s all right as long as it stays in his head, suspended reality in dreams and half sleep.

 


	8. accidental intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave/Andy - just add liquid courage

He didn't mean to barge in on Dave. It was an accident - at least in his own mind. It's just that Dave'd been in the bathroom for way too long and Andy'd already been through a couple (five) beers at that point. And that's not his fault either, because they'd had to wait for Dave to get out of some _photo shoot_ , which had of course run over the prerequisite two hours and then some. So him and Neal had broken out the six pack, and then another when Travis showed up, and they were all pretty well on their way to forgetting how long they'd been waiting by the time Dave showed up.

And then Dave had ducked into the bathroom with barely a nod in their direction, three grown men sprawled across a hotel room made for maybe one. Andy had pretended that it didn't bother him, for a few minutes at least, because he'd seen the dark circles under Dave's eyes the last time they'd been in the same state, thirty some odd tour stops ago. Rationally, he knew that Dave was burning out, that this non-stop was starting to get to him and that he ought to just back off and give his friend some space. Of course rational was sort of out the window at that point and that's why he suddenly found himself shouldering his way into the bathroom, into Dave's space in a way that he wouldn't have if he was a little more sober.

Dave was leaning over the counter toward the mirror, white hotel washcloth in his hand as he tried to scrub at the smudge of black surrounding his eyes. Andy felt the breath Dave sucked in when he pushed up against Dave's back, not enough air in the room for a second when he hooked his chin over Dave's shoulder.

"Ya let the makeup girl go a little overboard again, huh?"

Dave smirked, the tense line of his shoulders relaxing minutely under the weight of Andy spread across his back.

"You know I can't resist a pretty face, Skib."

Andy smiled, bringing his hand up to tug the washcloth out of Dave's grip. He backed up a step, enough for Dave to turn his back to the mirror, to let the full force of coal rimmed eyes fall on him without the filter of glass and dim light. His mouth quirked up on one side, an imitation of a smile.

"Think you're the pretty one this time, Dave."

It was an accident, sort of. Too much alcoholic courage and impatience fueling him to push open that door, to discover the heat of Dave's back, the exact curve of Dave's shoulders under sweaty palms. But then Dave leaned in; then Dave brushed his mouth against Andy's, soft and wet. It was an accident, until Dave's hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer with intent.


End file.
